Proverbial
by evilpinkpen
Summary: Because Jim and Bones are inevitable, no matter how you tell the story. Unconnected oneshots. Newest Proverb: In which an unusual diplomatic mission gives Jim a taste of his own medicine - and helps him realize that Bones is his favorite flavor.
1. HASTE

A/N: This series originates as a set of writing exercises I've begun in a probably futile attempt to foster more effective writing habits. I really am sorry, y'all. School, work, and chronic illness are conspiring to sap my creativity's will to live. The tales that make up "Proverbial" are intended to prime the pump, so to speak—and hopefully lessen my utter neglect of my chapter fics, especially "Scars."

I only intend the various pieces herein to relate to each other in the loosest of thematic senses: each will chronicle the development of a romance between Jim and Bones, with a proverb serving as the prompt. Beyond that, absolutely anything goes—all lengths, genres, and universes may apply. Any sections warranting additional warnings will receive them. For now, just expect the usual language, melodrama, and—of course—slash.

This first one is a pretty straightforward revamp of the bar scene from the movie—add doctor and shake well.

* * *

**HASTE**

XxXxXxX

_Marry in haste, repent at leisure._

XxXxXxX

Jocelyn had been a mistake from the get-go. Three beers and a couple shots of Jack into his evening, he didn't have any real problem admitting it. Worse than that, it was _his_ mistake, free and clear—for her part, Joss had known exactly what she was about.

She'd surely gotten it, too.

There was a part of Leonard McCoy that figured you had to admire a bitch with brass that epic. Yeah, he was just drunk enough to admit to a certain ruthless admiration for his formerly wedded nemesis.

Sure as hell didn't preclude him from hating her almost as much as he hated the universe that tolerated her existence, though. Hence the justification for his rather undignified retreat as soon as the metaphorical ink had dried on their divorce papers. Well, retreat was one word for it, anyway. Or strategic decampment, maybe.

He'd be goddamned if he admitted to running away from the manipulative bitch.

Unfortunately, he'd also be goddamned if he made his first appearance as Riverside General's newest trauma surgeon hungover, which meant that tonight was his last chance to drown his frustrations. He refused to call them sorrows—the Wicked Bitch of the Southeast had yet to reduce him to quite that level of sad sack melodrama, at least.

Still. Gazing morosely around the sorry-ass excuse of a bar, courtesy of Bumfuck, Iowa, he couldn't entirely fend off the sinking expectation that he'd get there soon enough.

Nursing the tail end of his third beer and the rising tide of hard feelings, he nonetheless found himself sparing half an eye for the dauntless townie kid at the bar beside him. Buff, blond, and All-American was working on his third righteous shutdown from the sexy, mocha-skinned Starfleet cadet on Leonard's other side, but he showed no signs of accepting defeat.

Leonard was drunk enough to admit a slight admiration for that, too—especially since the by-play bore no resemblance whatsoever to the saccharine clichés he'd exchanged with Joss, five years ago. And since the duo was singularly oblivious to the presence of the worn-down older man between them, he had a hell of a vantage point to make his observations from. After a quick glance assured him that the cadet wasn't nearly as annoyed by the attention as she wanted boy-wonder to believe, he was content to hide his sardonic amusement behind his beer as the zingers flew back and forth over his hunched shoulders.

At least, he was until sexy cadet's derisive but nonetheless lovely laughter was interrupted by a new, and blatantly threatening, voice.

"Is this townie bothering you?"

"Oh, beyond belief." Sexy cadet knocked back a shot, confidently unconcerned. "But it's nothing I can't handle."

"You _could_ handle me." Boy-wonder managed an impressively charming smile despite his rather unfocused gaze, but sexy cadet just rolled her eyes. "And that's an invitation."

Leonard wished he could feel half as nonchalant, but apparently the handful of years he had on these kids was telling on him, tonight. He recognized the look that bald and burly was giving the blond, and it told him the bigger man had no intention of backing off. If anything, that glare suggested that the newly dubbed "Cupcake" was mentally measuring the kid for a coffin, and Leonard couldn't suppress a sigh.

As though he really needed _more_ evidence that the universe loathed him.

He kept a wary watch out of the corner of his eye, adrenaline burning through the alcohol haze; when the first punch flew, he was ready for it. Twisting to jerk the kid out of the way just ahead of Cupcake's fist—and damn it, but he'd be feeling _that _tomorrow—he took the half-step forward that put him between the blond and his would-be assailants almost without conscious forethought, immediately directing a silent litany of curses at himself for the suicidal idiocy of the move.

Well. He was involved, now, and nothing to do for it but try to talk the batshit young bucks down before he had even more cause to regret it. Fortunately, the looks of sheer, stupid shock on the faces of all involved bought him the precious seconds he needed to get his mental feet back under him.

"Ease down!," he barked. Best to start simple—Cupcake and his cronies didn't strike him as the brightest crayons in the box. Besides, Cupcake and company were cadets, too. They recognized the command snap in his voice, the one that sent even surgical residents older than Leonard running to obey; and they responded to that implied authority despite their best—or rather, worst—intentions. Cupcake himself swayed backward, scowling uncertainly.

"I don't see how it's your business," the burly man finally snarled, after glancing back to his wingmen for support. Leonard rolled his eyes, not bothering to disguise his impatience.

"You tried to start a bar brawl right the fuck on top of me. Go figure, but I tend to consider that a personal inconvenience." He was actually rather fond of that particular tone—a tricky but entirely worthwhile combination of unimpressed and implacable. Though he'd designed it to terrorize med students, it was proving admirably effective in a multitude of situations. Including, thank god, the current one. The four brawny cadets were actually shuffling uncomfortably and exchanging helpless looks when boy-wonder picked his damn fool jaw up off the ground and attempted to surge forward.

"Look, man, I didn't ask you to—" The younger man's protest was cut off as Leonard jerked him sharply back against his own hip, looping one arm around his waist in restraint as his other hand pressed two fingers against the blond's lips, startling him into silence.

"Shut. Up. Stupid," he grated out, and for a moment, that was all he could manage. He tried to tell himself that it was the simple logistics of managing an armful of writhing, idiot kid, and thus had nothing to do with the fact that said armful was unbelievably warm and smelled like leather and alcohol and, of all things, strawberry-scented shampoo.

The full-face view of amused azure eyes that the position afforded him dared him to think that again and actually mean it. He dragged his own eyes back to their audience with a difficulty that he prayed like hell wasn't obvious, and his newly intensified glare met Cupcake's baffled one with unapologetic annoyance.

"The lady doesn't want your assistance, sport." He caught movement over the cadet's shoulder and glanced up, eyes narrowing in speculation. "And I guaran-damn-tee you that the boy-wonder here ain't worth embarrassing yourself in front of a command officer over."

"Hey!" the kid complained, but his lips curved into a slightly wicked smile under Leonard's sensitive fingertips as the aforementioned officer stepped farther into the room, which subsequently deteriorated into a jumble of red as cadets stumbled over themselves on the way to their salutes. The officer gestured Cupcake and company to the exit with a stern glare, nodding an appreciative acknowledgment to Leonard as the stiff-backed foursome hustled to comply. He nodded back with a dismissive shrug, but didn't release the kid in his arms until the door had closed between them.

Better safe than sorry, was all. Of course.

He pulled back abruptly, then, transferring his annoyed glare to the blond and ignoring the unaccountable chill he felt with the sudden distance. The kid just returned the eye contact, amused and calculating, those unbelievable eyes narrowing as his head tipped slightly to the side. There was no trace of inebriation left in his gaze.

Leonard felt entirely too sober himself, which meant that he was absolutely _not_ thinking that the kid—what the hell had he told the sexy cadet his name was? John? Jake?—kind of reminded him of a tiger cub investigating an unusually fascinating bug. Slightly adorable, and probably more dangerous than he seemed. And what the fuck was baby-blue staring at, anyway?

"You know, you have gorgeous eyes." For a moment, Leonard was terrified that he'd spoken the thought out loud. Then, he realized that _he_ was the one being addressed. His incredulous expression only elicited a wary-but-game smile from the blond, who continued, "So. What's _your_ name?"

After three beats of uncomprehending silence, he reached out and smacked the kid upside the head. Sexy cadet burst into approving laughter, and with the silence broken, the rest of the bar exploded into sound.

The white noise of excited gossip was almost painfully loud in the aftermath, and though he was loathe to give her so much credit, Jocelyn had left his ego bruised enough that he couldn't resist the urge to give the goddamn hyenas something to whisper about. After all, he'd seen the caliber that boy-wonder's taste ran to—and even if he was only classing Leonard in that category thanks to the dual graces of alcohol and adrenaline, it still felt pretty damned good. Watching the blond's lithe frame as it went through the motions of flirtation, he even started to believe that a night of feeling pretty damned good with the kid might not be such a bad idea.

That thought—and the lingering haze of his own alcohol and adrenaline—carried him out of the bar, with its tide of whispers, and all the way to the kid's own personal hole in the wall: a bachelor loft over his momma's farmhouse, lord love him. He tried to convince himself that it didn't really matter; people did it all the time, after all. And so what if this was only the second time _he'd_ done it. So what if the first time, the choice had culminated in his shuttle wreck of a divorce.

Didn't matter. Couldn't let it matter.

Suddenly, or so it seemed, the kid's warm, calloused hands were sliding under his shirt to play teasingly over the small of his back. Lips trailed lightly down a jawline that Leonard had abruptly realized carried three days of stubble with every indication of enjoyment, neither hesitant nor particularly insistent. They paused at the corner of his mouth, as though seeking permission, and the gesture was so tender and unexpected—so un-Jocelyn—that all at once, he really _didn't_ care.

He turned toward the touch, and the universe fell back into place—along with hands and mouths, and countless other body parts that he hadn't utilized this enthusiastically in he couldn't remember how long. After what might have been seconds or hours, but was probably something in between, they finally stumbled their way onto the double bed. The kid drew back for a moment, all disheveled sandy hair and desire-glazed azure eyes, and licked his kiss-swollen lips with distracted—and distracting—contemplation.

"You know, I never quite caught that name." Leonard grinned at that, full and sudden and**—**apparently**—**a little startling, since his bed-mate caught his breath sharply in response.

"Never actually threw it to you, kid," he replied, and the wriggling motion the blond executed in revenge elicited an equally sharp hiss.

"What _is_ it with people tonight? And I'm Jim, by the way. Jim Kirk." Jim looked at him expectantly, but Leonard simply rolled his eyes and twisted onto his back, pulling the younger man with him so that Jim straddled his torso, Leonard's hands a steadying presence on his hips.

"Yeah, kid. I know," he tossed back dryly, lifting one brow in challenge. After all, it was almost true. And the white lie was completely justified by the several kinds of heat in Jim's return glare as he leaned back in. Leonard trailed his fingers up the blond's spine in a maneuver he'd already discovered could guarantee a shiver in response, and only had a moment to smirk in triumph before the expression was washed away in a flood of sensation.

It was the best sex that Leonard had ever experienced—and also, in some ways, the strangest, despite the fact that it was pretty standard vanilla. Somehow, it was neither fast nor slow, both forceful and gentle. Demanding and generous all at once, and far too tender and thorough for lovers whose bodies were unfamiliar territory still, and whose hearts were all but unknown. Jim kissed a fascinated trail over the freckles that dusted his shoulders, and Leonard found a scar behind the younger man's knee that made him writhe when licked.

It became almost a game, and then more than a game, and Leonard was both elated and slightly relieved when they finally settled next to each other, limbs tangled and limp with exhaustion.

"That was fun," Jim finally offered, his voice still hitching breathily in a way that Leonard found extremely gratifying.

"Can't argue," he replied, and the husky edge in his own voice must have had a similar effect on his fly-by-night lover, because Jim ran a rather proprietary hand down his arm in response.

"So. Breakfast?" Leonard gave the kid a bemused look that was probably lost in the dark.

"What, now?"

"After that workout? Fuck, no." Jim stifled a yawn before continuing. "In the morning."

Leonard froze. "You asking me to stay the night?" Jim stretched sinuously against him before tugging him back into a gently insistent embrace.

"Why not? Seems like the least I can do for you, considering." The self-satisfied smirk was clear in the kid's voice, and Leonard elbowed him in response.

"Most people would figure we've already done plenty for each other, _considering_."

"Oh, come on," Jim wheedled. "I'll even take you to the diner where the officers usually get breakfast. Give your partner in crime from the bar a chance to thank you properly, since you were babysitting his cadets and all."

"Thank me," he repeated, amused. "What, like you just did?"

"Why, is he more your type?" Even encroaching drowsiness couldn't disguise the trace of jealousy in Jim's flippant tone, and Leonard sighed, giving in to the impulse to pull the kid closer.

"Shut up and sleep," he ordered, gruff and embarrassingly affectionate.

Although his new-found lover obeyed with admirable promptness, Leonard himself was unable to follow the example, his thoughts tumbling with a strangely idle desperation. Jim was just like him, he realized bleakly—or rather, just like he'd been five years ago. Too young for twenty-three, in some ways, and far less prepared than he thought he was. Too old, in others, to just sit around and let a chance pass by; the instincts that warned him it might never come again were already in place. He'd been primed to fall, and just waiting for someone to reach out and catch him.

Yeah, Leonard recognized the type, and the game. Fall into bed, too fast, too soon. Fall into more—and hit bottom, hard.

He knew that this kind of headlong rush could only end in a different kind of fall.

The moon had risen past the window as he brooded, casting the fair hair and long, lean lines of the man in his arms into sharp, silvered relief. Jim's lashes cast fey shadows as they fluttered, then lifted to half-mast as he shifted, murmuring.

"What?" Leonard prompted softly, stroking a soothing hand down the younger man's back.

"What's your name?" Jim repeated, only a little slurred. Leonard gazed into wistful, moon-shadowed eyes, and sighed.

"McCoy. Leonard McCoy."

"Hmmm," Jim purred, with evident satisfaction, and nestled deeper into pillows and arms before subsiding back into sleep.

Making a face at his implausible, apparently impossible to deny bed-mate, Leonard did the same. And if his last thought before sleep claimed him was that Jim Kirk just might be worth regretting someday, he sure as hell wasn't going to tell the kid so over pancakes in the morning.

It was far too soon, for that.


	2. OPPOSITES

A/N: evi is a firm believer in living better vicariously. She therefore brings you this short and sweet college AU (Written in place of tomorrow's ANTH 329 assignment—priorities, you say? Meh, says I…) in order to alleviate her own gloomishness concerning her (nonexistent) love life.

Don't worry, she'll get over it. Meanwhile, consolation is as follows.

* * *

**OPPOSITES**

XxXxXxX

_Opposites attract._

XxXxXxX

Leo figured he was the biggest nerd in the university's drama department, easy. Considering the collection of enthusiasts, queens (drama and otherwise), and all-around eccentrics that comprised said department, that was saying something—and normally, it would be considered a mark of pride.

Trouble was, he'd recently come to the realization that he was the wrong _type_ of nerd. What else could explain the fact that while everyone else was clowning on the stage in blissful, after-hours freedom, he was sprawled over several of the auditorium seats below with a chemistry textbook in his lap, a calculus text open beside him, notes scattered everywhere, and his reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose yet again? It was a little embarrassing, really.

Not that he was the only one in the group with a 4.0—he kept his gaze firmly on the periodic table and emphatically _didn't_ think about his roommate, who was declaiming one of Puck's lines from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ with malicious glee all of ten feet away—but he was the only one who actually had to work for it, and sure as hell the only one willing to.

Dropping his pen with an exasperated huff, he twisted gingerly before swinging his legs out of the neighboring seat and hooking them over the back of his own. Leaning backward to press his hands against the floor, he closed his eyes briefly as the maneuver stretched his stiff back and shoulders. Apparently, he'd been slouching again—he was just lucky that none of the posture nazis had thrown anything at him this time.

The memory actually made him wince. Nyota had one hell of an arm, for a ballerina.

Smirking ruefully, he opened his eyes and cast an upside-down glance at the stage. He was only startled for the briefest of moments when rich blue eyes met his own—it was hardly the first time he'd caught Jim watching him, after all. The aspiring actor claimed that "close observation of my fellow man is an integral part of the job, Bones."

He only wished he had an excuse half as plausible for his own wandering gaze. The sigh that he had to fight back as he raised an inquiring brow was surprisingly bitter, but the teasing wink he got in response made it completely worthwhile. Settling deeper into his chair, he decided to indulge in a few minutes of Jim-watching. After all, it wasn't like the spotlight hound minded. His roommate was a natural leader and a born star—though Leo had resolved years ago never, ever to tell him so. The man's ego had its own gravitational pull as it was. Still, he realized and accepted that Jim would be at the center of attention and adoring gazes as long as he kept breathing. That was just Jim.

Leo's inverted vantage did nothing to diminish his appreciation of the actor's motions as he worked through the choreography of a new sword fight with Hikaru. To the contrary, in fact, as a particularly lithe section of footwork made him tilt his head in blatantly erotic speculation—goddamn, but Jim could move. The thought was quickly quashed, though, and he let his head drop back against the seat with a muffled thump and a sigh.

"See something you like, Leo my love?" The sweet, amused voice came from _right_ beside him, completely unanticipated. He startled, cursed, barely caught the chem text as it tried to nail him in the face, and cursed some more.

"Oops. A bit distracted, are we?" Her smile wickedly unapologetic, Nyota stretched one long leg across him to toe a precariously wobbling stack of notes into a more secure position, effectively pinning him into place.

Nyota smiled down at the handsome brunet and decided that it was probably kinder _not_ to tell him how adorable he looked, twisting with unconscious grace to glare at her over the wire rims of his glasses. Though most of the guys in their quirky little group would take it as the intended compliment it was, the prickly pianist was, as always, the exception to the social rule.

She felt her smile widen with fondness as she regarded him, the oddity among their odd family of artists. Though Leo obviously enjoyed playing—and lord knew he had incredible talent—he wasn't an entertainer by nature. In fact, he'd once drunkenly admitted that he'd only accepted his music scholarship to piss off his father, the doctor. And it didn't take Jim Kirk's IQ to see that his real passion was reserved for the other two components of his triple major. Still, no one who mattered minded—if the sarcastic, bookish biochem major wanted to tickle the ivories in his spare time, instead of the other way around, they were nonetheless happy to have him.

More truthfully, they needed him. As the only one in their whole troop of ambitious visionaries with both feet planted on terra firma, Leo was the one who hounded them to eat, sleep, and relax on any kind of healthy schedule. He dispensed the perpetually necessary first aid with sharp words and gentle hands, and everyone knew that Jim wouldn't have the perfect average that he refused to admit he was proud of if his roommate didn't nag him so religiously about his assignments. He was everyone's implacable but gruffly affectionate big brother, and they adored him for it.

It sometimes gave her an actual, physical pang to realize that the very things that made him so precious to his friends meant that he'd be left behind after graduation, when the rest of them moved on to chase Broadway lights and big-city glory.

She shook herself out of her brief reverie to meet hazel eyes that had softened with concern. "Heavy thoughts?" he asked, his long fingers tapping distractedly soothing chords against her shin, and it was easy to smile at him again.

"Hey, isn't that my line?" He quirked one of his crooked smiles back at her.

"Beat you to it. So spill." Though she got every impression that he was still listening intently, his eyes flicked back to the stage where Jim was attempting an extremely entertaining rendition of a pirouette. She didn't hold it against him, though—that was just Jim and Leo. They embodied all those clichés about magnets and moths with flames. Opposites attracting with a vengeance. And everyone who knew them was eagerly awaiting the inevitable collision. She tangled her fingers in his silky, disheveled hair affectionately, and he shifted his gaze back to her.

"I was just thinking how much I'm going to miss you next year, when the rest of us move to New York and you're off wowing them in grad school, or whatever."

"Not grad school. Med school," he corrected automatically. Then his eyes widened in shock. "Wait. Shit. How did you know about that?" She frowned at him.

"Leo, everyone knows. You're obvious like that." She wasn't sure whether to be concerned or suspicious in the face of his distress. "But since we're on the subject, why _haven't_ you said anything about it?"

His suddenly darkened eyes flicked to Jim, then back to Nyota again as he bit his lower lip in yet another of the world's most adorable nervous habits. It took her a moment to place his expression.

With almost a year yet to go, those hazel eyes were already regarding Jim Kirk with a subdued but clearly devastated resignation.

"Oh. Oh! Leo…" she began, searching for a diplomatic way to say _he loves you too, you moron!_ Before anything came to mind, though, she found herself gently dumped back into her own chair as the idiot male swept up his books and fled without even the socially requisite excuse that he'd left the stove on.

She rolled her eyes at the typically Leo-like behavior, then narrowed them at the atypical cause, thinking quickly. If one-half of the dynamically dense duo had attained enlightenment, she felt no remaining hesitation in urging them along—close as they were already, it would only take a little nudge.

Smirking with sudden inspiration, she rubbed fingertips that still tingled with sensory memory. After all, the power of suggestion was on her side.

She knew that minor in Psychology would eventually come in handy.

Jim watched with growing concern from the corner of his eye as his roommate gave Nyota a stricken look before commencing to make like a jackrabbit, at which point he gave up even the pretense of unawareness. Hell, Leo hadn't even bothered to take off his reading glasses before he hustled out, and Jim knew for a fact that it bugged him walk around in the things—said it gave him a headache.

Nyota, for her part, was smirking mysteriously as Jim hopped down from the stage, closely followed by several of the others—though her mouth twisted into a frown at his stormy approach.

"Don't even start that overprotective shit with me, Kirk. You know I wouldn't hurt him purposefully any more than you would," she snapped, fortunately before he decided to open his own mouth and free the accusation that sat on the tip of his tongue. He took a deep breath before responding—Nyota's bad side was not a place he enjoyed being.

"Yeah. Fuck was that all about, though?" Nyota rolled her eyes.

"Nothing," she huffed. "He finally admitted he's planning to go to med school, is all." Jim felt himself grinning.

"Med school? Seriously? That's awesome!"

"Leo'll be a great doctor," Pavel enthused, and Jim had to agree—even the blind could see that the pianist had even more of a flair for medicine than he did for music, and he sure as hell had a surgeon's hands. Hell, Jim had only known the man for a few months when he noticed that bandaging strained knees and ankles put more satisfaction in his roommate's expressive eyes than even a flawless session at the keyboard did. Jim's only fear had been that Leo would keep avoiding his father's profession out of distaste for the man himself, despite his own inclinations. But since it had taken more than one night of alcohol-fueled confidences to get even that much out from behind his friend's sarcastic walls, he'd kept the opinion to himself.

If he was scrupulously honest—and he tried to be, at least with himself—that wasn't the only secret involving Leo that he'd been keeping. There was a small, guilty part of him that had been willing to let his friend make the wrong choice, if it kept him from leaving him. Leaving all of them, sure; the pragmatic, uncompromising Southerner was the competent right hand of their flighty little group. And yes, he absolutely _wished_ he meant it that way, because Leo was smoking hot. But mostly, the impulse was more selfish than that, and had been ever since he'd bet his sexy freshman biology lab partner that he couldn't name all 206 bones in the human skeleton from memory.

He'd lost, of course. Best ten bucks he'd ever spent, too. Still, that didn't explain the situation at hand.

"Sooo…what's the problem, again?" he asked, pushing aside his own bittersweet reaction to the news. The ballerina glared at him.

"There _is_ no problem, Jim. That's the _point_." When he just looked at her blankly, she rolled her eyes at him, rising to her feet in a graceful flurry of agitated gestures. "Okay, so the two of you are absolutely and without a doubt the most _idiotic_ geniuses in the _history_ of mankind. But aside from that, there's no problem." Someone snickered, and he made a mental note to exact revenge on Hikaru as soon as he figured out what the hell Nyota was going on about. She, however, just shook her head in apparent exasperation and made shooing motions. "Don't. Just go talk to him."

"But what—" he began, baffled by the convolutions of the female mind at work.

"Go. Talk. Now." She actually put a hand between his shoulder blades and pushed, so he shrugged and started forward. He guessed it wasn't a _bad_ idea, anyway, if Leo was upset or whatever. They could go get a beer, get his mind off of it. He'd only made it two steps when a slim, strong hand on his sleeve drew him back.

"Oh, and Jim?" Nyota murmured, for his ears only. "His hair really _is_ as soft as it looks." Then she shoved him on his way again, and he let himself be propelled out the door. Three blocks back to the apartment he shared with Leo, and he could only formulate one response to _that_ cryptic observation.

What the _hell_?

One of the three of them had clearly lost their flipping mind. He just wished he could even begin to guess which of them it was.

Leo was in the kitchen when he burst into the apartment, perched on a bar stool and staring moodily into a can of generic cola. Jim opened his mouth—probably to ask his roommate what the hell his problem was, or something equally tactful—only to close it again with an audible click as Leo's gaze snapped up to meet his own.

The motion had been accompanied by the sharp, reflexive jerk that Leo used to flick his hair out of his eyes—it was longish in that careless way that somehow made it clear he'd just been ignoring it, rather than cultivating it for fashionable purposes like Pavel or Jim himself. Also unlike either of them, Leo's hair was perfectly straight, the glossy brown of it a chestnut so ridiculously dark that it only showed its auburn cast when the light hit it _just_ so, like the late afternoon sunlight was now.

And damn it, Jim was going to _murder_ Nyota, because suddenly the curiosity was killing him. Leo's hair _did_ look almost unbelievably soft, and Jim had never had an excuse to touch it and find out. Did he even need an excuse, or were they close enough to engage in unjustified acts of random touching?

All this passed through his mind in the whirlwind of seconds before Leo's tense expression registered, at which point Jim decided that the correct answer was not yes or no, but _fuck it_. He sauntered across the room, stopping in front of the other man and propping his hip against the counter.

"Hey, there," he greeted, and Leo gave him an odd look, but played along.

"Hey yourself, Jim." His accent was heavier than normal, vowels stretching in the distracted way that meant he was worried rather than the purposeful one that indicated anger. Good news, but not great, Jim decided. Still, it gave him a little more space to work with. He waggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

"So. Come here often?" Leo choked on his soda before setting the can down with a thunk, coughing around his laughter.

"Jesus, Jim. Only you would subject a guy to bad pick-up lines in his own kitchen." He bowed with a completely unnecessary flourish, waiting for Leo's inevitably fleeting smile to fade before continuing.

"You left in kind of a hurry," he finally observed. Leo just shrugged, looking down dismissively, though his fingers tightened visibly around his drink. "Med school's a great idea. You're gonna be a badass doctor," he pushed, trying a slightly different angle of approach. He got another shrug in response, and fought the urge to sigh in frustration.

The conversation, such as it was, was going exactly as he might have predicted. Put his roommate in the middle of a moral or intellectual debate, and the man would happily make a public spectacle of himself until he either won or was shouted down. Ask him a personal question, and he made most aquatic bivalves look talkative—Leo was a stereotypical clam. Jim _knew_ that, and he'd long since accepted it.

That was just Leo. When it came to feelings, he was just better at showing than telling. Jim suspected that was part of the reason that he felt so protective of the other man. That it was part of the reason he…loved him.

Ah, shit. He really _was_ going to have to kill Nyota. Unfortunately, at some point his hand had begun acting without the input of his stalled brain. With barely perceptible hesitation, it reached out to card through Leo's bangs, which had fallen in front of his eyes again.

His hair wasn't as soft as it looked, after all. It was even softer, impossibly silky, and yeah, he was going to murder his best friend's other best friend. But though startled hazel eyes finally met his own, the brunet didn't pull away. Jim took it as tacit permission, and kept petting. The next move had to be Leo's, he supposed.

"Jim…what…" He paused, licking his lips nervously, and Jim changed his mind about leaving the ball in the other man's court.

Even if he'd never particularly noticed how goddamn _pretty_ Leo's hair was before—thanks a _million_, Nyota—he'd sure as hell had fantasies about that mouth.

The first kiss was cautious, the barest brush of lips. The second held intent, a warning that not saying no meant saying yes. The third, Leo initiated—and it went on for quite some time. He tasted sweet, like his abandoned cola, and his fingers were refrigerator-cold against the back of Jim's neck, but Jim tangled both hands in that silky hair and enjoyed the hell out of every second. And when they finally pulled back, gasping softly, neither of them actually let go, and Jim was suddenly, absolutely certain of two things.

"The bitch set us up, Bones," he muttered. Incontrovertible fact number one.

"What?" Leo asked, blankly. His voice was decidedly husky, his eyes greener than Jim had ever seen them and slightly unfocused, and Jim felt inordinately proud of himself—until he noticed his own shaking hands and stuttering pulse.

"Nyota. She knew this would happen. She sent me after you." Leo lifted a skeptical brow.

"Why the hell would she do that?" he demanded, and Jim swallowed hard past the sudden lump in his throat.

"I…I think I might know." The brow inched higher, attaining what Jim thought of as Leo's _do tell _expression, and he forged ahead. "So, there have to be at least a couple of med schools in New York, right? Because I'm not going there without you, Bones." Incontrovertible fact number two.

He had no words for the expression that settled onto Leo's face with that declaration—he'd never seen it before, ever. Not even close. But as the brunet snapped one hand out to wrench the blinds closed, and pushed Jim firmly against the counter with the other before the rest of him followed, erasing the space between them, he decided that he liked it.

He liked it a lot.

Maybe he'd grant Nyota clemency, after all.


	3. ANGELS

A/N: So, the Proverb that I was writing for last week never quite gelled, and midterms kept me from coming up with a replacement in time. And _then_, I was attacked by Bookdragon's evil squirrels!

Not buying it? Yeah, me neither. *heavy sigh*

Anywho. No Proverb last week. My bad. No Proverb anticipated for next week, either, as I have every intention of finally producing chapter 10 of "Scars."

I know, I know…you've heard it all before. But hope truly does spring eternal.

Meanwhile, here is Proverb #3. And it is—gasp!—not even remotely AU. How the hell did _that _happen? I even invented some nifty aliens for it. It's also ridiculously long. I'm telling you, this is two weeks worth of writing, easy. Almost three, even.

So, yeah. Go, evi.

* * *

**ANGELS**

XxXxXxX

_Fools rush in where angels fear to tread._

XxXxXxX

"Why do I have to be here, again?" Leonard "Bones" McCoy dropped into the chair on Jim's left with a sigh that the young captain estimated was maybe sixty percent his trademark impatience, and forty percent genuine weariness. He offered his friend a sympathetic grimace—since Scotty had taken advantage of the relative calm during their week-long jaunt to Ilumyna to test a couple of his infamous "improvements," the engineers had been keeping Medical on its toes.

"Sorry, Bones, but Spock insisted." When the doctor just lifted an unimpressed brow, Jim quirked a wicked grin at him and leaned in conspiratorially. "You know, if one of you would just get around to declaring your passionate, undying love, we wouldn't have this problem."

He actually got _two_ disgusted glares for his efforts: a Vulcan version that was faintly perceptible, and therefore priceless; and the one he'd come to think of as the "McCoy Classic." In other words, time well spent—though it sometimes worried Jim that the only thing he could get the two of them to agree on was their mutual dislike.

Their _considerable_ mutual dislike—Spock had once accused the doctor of "epitomizing every quality that undermines humankind's claim to possess advanced reasoning abilities," which had seriously tested Jim's admittedly tolerant line between "entertainingly snarky" and "not kosher on the bridge." Not that Jim didn't understand, he really did—being forced to work closely with someone who made no secret of loathing you was a bitch, and Spock was human enough to be annoyed by the situation, but far too Vulcan to leave the feeling unrationalized. In typically arrogant Spock-fashion, he'd chosen to justify it with the assumption that the irrationality lay solely with McCoy.

Bones, for his part, still hadn't forgiven Spock—either Spock—for Delta Vega and that incident on the bridge afterward, and he'd made it clear that they could "take their _extenuating_ _circumstances_ and shove 'em." Jim was pretty sure that Bones meant it, too; even though he'd referred to the doctor as a mother hen on more than one occasion, it actually wasn't a particularly accurate metaphor. Bones was more like a mama wolf when it came to the people he cared about or felt responsible for—and Jim didn't think it was hubris if he put himself near the top of both lists.

So, yeah, he got it, and he sympathized with both of them. But that didn't make him feel any better about the realization that someday, they weren't going to succeed in separating their personal animosity from their working relationship, and Jim was going to have to severely reprimand one or both of his closest friends and senior officers.

The wry look Bones gave him as their eyes met told him that at least part of his thought process had been visible to the doctor, and he glanced away again, clearing his throat unnecessarily as he noticed that the conference table had filled while his mind wandered. "So. On to the business at hand, then?"

"A most logical suggestion, Captain," Spock noted, dry enough to wilt a Saharan cactus. Jim appreciated the fact that he could practically feel Bones rolling his eyes, though he kept his own face gamely neutral and his eyes forward. "This meeting was called in reference to the impending commencement of official negotiations between the Federation and Procepis Six, known to the native sentient species as Ilumyna." He gave Bones a withering look. "Your presence was requested, Doctor, because the Ilumynarians hold practitioners of the medical arts in unusually high regard. They would therefore take it greatly amiss if the _Enterprise_, as the Federation's representative, failed to include its senior medical officer in the negotiation process."

"Sounds like a sensible species," Bones admitted grudgingly, after a long pause. "Still, I shouldn't have to tell y'all that I'm not exactly diplomat material."

"Allow me to assure you, Doctor," Spock began, his tone acquiring the edge that he seemed to reserve especially for Bones, "that your presence alone will be more than adequate. As always."

Jim didn't know whether to be impressed or annoyed by the smoothly phrased insult. Neither impulse distracted him from the awareness that Bones had gone stiff beside him, though, and his hand darted out to squeeze the other man's wrist in warning. Bones jerked angrily against the restraint, just once, then relented and sprawled back into his chair with that unconscious, rangy grace of his, giving the Vulcan his best _I do not have time for your bullshit_ glare.

That cued the Vulcan to tense with insult in turn, and Jim fought the urge to sigh in exasperation. Impressed annoyance about covered it, where his XO and CMO's unmatched talents for needling each other were concerned. But he couldn't think of a damned thing he could do about it, without looking like he was taking sides. And _that_ was not an option.

Especially since he knew exactly which side he'd take, if he could. He stroked his thumb apologetically over the inside of Bones' wrist before letting go and returning his attention to the miffed Vulcan.

It occurred to him, in passing, that the fact that no one else had so much as blinked at the by-play probably revealed several incriminating things about the interpersonal dynamics of his senior staff.

"Thank you, Spock," he said, finally—and if his own tone was more than a little dry, no one called him on it. "So, what can we expect from the Ilumynarians at the negotiating table? Aside from an inordinate fondness for doctors, that is?"

Spock's brow acquired the faint crease of distaste that it usually did, when the Ilumynarians were discussed. Though they, like the Vulcans, were a species of touch-telepaths, they had adapted a distinctly different approach to managing the ability. Rather than attempting to minimize and legislate tactile contact as the Vulcans had, the Ilumynarians reveled in it, preferring to immerse themselves almost continually in the thoughts and emotions of their fellows. The result was not a hive mind, by any means—their access to each other's consciousness was far too shallow for that—but rather a planet-wide civilization that possessed a remarkably consistent set of values, chief among which were self-disclosure and compassion.

Actually, now that Jim thought about it, it didn't surprise him that they valued doctors so highly.

"As a culture, the Ilumynarians place great import on symbolism and ritual. They particularly emphasize the creation of symbolic ties between otherwise unaffiliated groups and individuals, as they believe it fosters greater understanding amongst those involved."

"The same could be said of most species, Spock—including both humans and Vulcans," Bones pointed out, carefully bland.

"Indeed," Spock allowed, in almost the same tone. "However, the Ilumynarians have stipulated that such a tie be established between the crew of the _Enterprise_ and the Ilumynarian ruling Clan before they will permit the negotiations to proceed."

"And I'm assuming this requires a ritual, of some sort?" Jim guessed.

"It does," Uhura affirmed, glancing to Spock for permission to take over the explanation. When he offered her a stately nod, she continued. "For all practical purposes, the Ilumynarians have determined that the _Enterprise_ crew functions as a Clan, with the senior staff as its Council of Elders." She paused, and Jim had to grin at the thought of his ridiculously youthful senior staff as _Elders_. "Ultimately, what the incredibly convoluted justification boils down to is that they want to adopt one of us as an honorary member of the ruling Clan," she finished.

"Awesome," Sulu muttered, while Chekov's eyes flew wide. Jim, on the other hand, narrowed his in thought.

"How about it then, Spock? Ever wanted to be royalty?" When the Vulcan went stiff with what appeared to be shock, he continued, "As a fellow touch-telepath, you would seem to be the natural candidate."

"With all due respect, sir, I must submit that such candidacy is not to my personal preference." Spock's voice was distinctly and uncharacteristically strained, and even Uhura looked chagrined. Jim glanced between the two with dawning suspicion.

"Alright, spill. What's wrong with this ceremony they have such a hard-on for?" he asked.

"Not…wrong, precisely. However, the ritual is of an extremely intimate nature, even by Terran standards. By Vulcan ones…" Uhura trailed off, glancing at her significant other with concern.

"So it contains a sexual component?" Jim frowned. That wouldn't completely rule out the participation of a willing crewman, but it complicated the hell out of the paperwork. Yeah, he figured it was safe to say that he did _not_ feel the same enthusiasm for alien sex ceremonies that he might have back at the Academy. Fortunately, Uhura shook her head.

"Not sexual, no. Actually, the closest Terran equivalent would be ritual tattooing. But since the Ilumynarians engage in sustained telepathic communion with the adoptee during the process…"

Jim sighed and pressed two fingers against the suddenly throbbing pressure point in his temple. "Intimate."

Uhura nodded. "Extremely. Both physically, and psychically."

"Guess I'm the lucky guy, then," Jim said lightly—there wasn't a chance in hell he was asking one of his crew, one of his _friends_, to volunteer for a tattoo and mind-fuck campfire sing-along with the nice telepathic aliens. "Do you think my mom will mind?"

"Hold that thought," Bones interjected, voice grim, and Jim shot him a sharp glance. "When you say 'equivalent to tattooing,' I'm assuming that you mean the sub-dermal application of an indelible pigmented compound?"

"Yes, although they declined to share the exact nature of the pigment or the method of application," Uhura admitted. "The Ilumynarians are incredibly informal on the whole, but when it comes to their Clan rituals, they can be spectacularly touchy. The last Federation emissary almost instigated an interstellar conflict by inquiring too deeply into their marriage customs."

Bones' scowl deepened viciously. "Then you can damned well forget it, Jim. Most Ilumynarian chemical compounds don't play nicely with Terran physiology under the best of circumstances. With your allergies, it'd be tantamount to suicide."

Jim felt his own lips press into a grim line. "There's no chance of renegotiating this requirement?"

Uhura shook her head apologetically. "None. I got the impression that their leaders are already a little annoyed that only one of us will be accepting the honor."

"And it has to be a member of the senior staff?" Jim could see the thoughts shifting like quicksilver behind Bones' hazel eyes, and his heart dropped as the conclusion they were working toward came clear to him.

"No. No _way_, Bones. It's too dangerous!"

The incredulous look the doctor gave him held both annoyance and affection. "Did you _really_ just say that to me, you hypocrite?" The meeting paused while Sulu succumbed to a sudden coughing fit and Chekov pounded him on the back, murmuring what Jim assumed was soothing nonsense in Russian.

When the red-faced Lieutenant had calmed, Bones continued. "I can't believe I'm volunteering for this idiocy—and for the record, I'm officially retracting that comment about the Ilumynarians being sensible, because _screw_ that—but if _any_ of us are going down there to get injected with top-secret alien voodoo chemicals, it's sure as hell going to be the one who can actually do something about not dying from it!" He crossed his arms and glared mulishly at Jim, daring him to argue—and the faint glint of fear in his eyes had Jim opening his mouth to do just that—but Spock spoke first.

"Captain, Dr. McCoy's suggestion is…reasonable." It wasn't the coveted adjective _logical_, and the words dragged in a way that suggested Spock had forced them out kicking and screaming. Still, when everyone—including Bones—had finished gaping, there didn't seem to be anything left to say on the matter.

That didn't keep Jim from spending the last 36 hours of the journey desperately trying to come up with an alternative—_anything_ that would let them avoid leaving Bones (who _hated_ away missions, and just what the hell had he been smoking to go and _volunteer_?) alone on a strange planet to "commune" with the goddamn locals and probably get poisoned. And Bones could call him a hypocrite all he wanted, because fuck that. It was _not_ happening on his watch.

At least, that was his plan until Bones dragged him roughly into a supply closet on E deck and gave him a glare that held more than a little unhappiness.

"Look, Jim, if you really think I'm not competent enough to handle this mission, you need to just say so."

"What? No!" Jim exclaimed, startled and heartsick with the realization that he'd contributed to the self-doubt that was darkening his friend's eyes. "Hell, Bones, if the Ilumynarians value honesty half as much as Uhura claims they do, you're fucking ideal for the job." The wry twist that observation brought to Bones' lips eased the tightness in Jim's chest a little, and he bulldozed on. "I _know_ that you can do this. You're one of the two most terrifyingly capable people on this ship, and that is seriously saying something. I just…" he trailed off, at a loss.

Bones just watched him with unwonted patience, his head tipped quizzically to the left and his eyes dark and intent, and Jim frowned at him with sudden uncertainty. "I just don't want you to have to," he finally offered. The lame explanation evidently elucidated more for Bones than it did for Jim himself, because the doctor's expression cleared.

"Well. Someone had to," he countered lightly, and Jim made a face at him.

"Yeah, yeah. Way to take one for the team, Bones." The doctor's parting glance was solemn, though the faint smile on his lips suggested that he hadn't meant it to be.

"You know better than that, Jim," he murmured, and Jim threw a spare filtration bolt-frame at the door that had swished shut behind him because, yeah, he did know better. He also knew that the bastard had just called him a hypocrite, again—and he'd been right.

Needless to say, Jim was fully prepared to hate the Ilumynarians the next day, when the senior staff beamed down for a "Welcome to Ilumyna" bash that proved every bit as informal as Uhura had promised. Unfortunately, they turned out to be an attractive, cheerful, and altogether engaging species, with pleasant, fluting voices and vestigial wings that coordinated brightly with their downy hair.

The jewel-tones made a sharp contrast to the stark black of the intricate tattoos that traced their arms, necks, and faces. Jim didn't realize he was staring bleakly at the patterns until Bones gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"Jim. They rescheduled the end of the universe, I promise." He met Bones' concerned eyes with a forcibly sunny smile.

"Of course. And hell, it's not like you can't remove them as soon as we're finished here, right?"

"Well. Maybe," Bones muttered, narrowing his own gaze analytically at the nearest Ilumynarian, and Jim felt his heart skip a beat.

"What do you mean, _maybe_?" he demanded, but Bones was prevented from elaborating by the arrival of the Ilumynarian Matriarch.

"One is Captain James Kirk, the male who is the Patriarch of the Federation Clan _Enterprise_," the Matriarch began, chirping cheerfully to the smaller female at her side. "Elder Kirk, one is my half-daughter Mrreena, the female who is honored to shelter your Clan brother."

Jim gazed at the woman who would be "adopting" Bones, with her merry eyes and crimson feathers just beginning to fade to rose—at the elegant black lines that wound around her throat and cupped her left cheekbone—and couldn't find it in himself to resent her. When he reached out to clasp her tattooed hand, all he felt was a sickened resignation, and the merriment in Mrreena's eyes faded as she perceived it.

_Goddamn it_, Jim thought, and then desperately tried to clear his mind until the socially requisite ten standard seconds had passed and he could break the contact. Because he could _feel_ her surprise and dismay, and he was pretty sure that neither reaction boded well for Bones' imminent situation.

The tiny Ilumynarian tipped her head at him in puzzlement, forcefully reminding him of Bones' patiently questioning look from the day before. He saw her eyes widen as she shared the memory, and she smiled gently at him. Understanding and respect flooded him before she released his hand.

"One wishes to dislike me," she fluted, softly teasing, and he glared at his boots and _knew_ that he looked like a chastised toddler—but how the hell were you supposed to respond when the telepath that you were playing diplomat with called you out like that?

"It's nothing against you, personally," he muttered. Shit, he could already feel Spock and Uhura glaring daggers at the back of his head. But Mrreena just trilled a laugh and patted his cheek, gracing him with a wave of fondness.

"Yes. One can sense this." She turned to Bones, smiling warmly. "And one must be Healer Leonard McCoy, the male whom one is honored to shelter as her quarter-son." The doctor accepted the traditional handclasp with perceptible hesitation—and Jim winced internally, realizing that he hadn't exactly provided a sterling example for his crew—but his voice was steady as he replied with the greeting that Uhura had taught him.

"One is honored to receive the shelter of your Clan, Lady Mrreena." She laughed again, even more joyously.

"One truly means this—though not for the reasons that one would have us believe." Bones blushed slightly, glancing at Jim in desperation.

"Um…I'm sorry?" The Ilumynarian's mirth gentled again.

"Such is not necessary. To honor another with such purity is the first of blessings." She stepped back, her dark gaze shifting between the two of them before settling on Jim again. "One honors your fears for your _Llmeena_, Captain James Kirk. One will treasure him on your behalf." With that cryptic statement, she swept a low bow that clearly encompassed the both of them, and the gathered Ilumynarians burst into excited chatter and motion. Tugged gently into the bright maelstrom by Mrreena, Bones gave Jim one final glance over his shoulder, a crooked smile on his lips and carefully leashed panic in his eyes.

"Don't wait up, honey," he quipped.

"You're the one who'll be missing the _real_ party, baby," Jim shot back. "Don't worry, we'll try to hide the evidence before you get back." He was relieved to see the panic ease, a little, before the swirling crowd blocked them from each other's view.

Nine hours later, most of the _Enterprise_ crewmen who'd beamed down with them had returned to the ship, and only Spock, Uhura, and the occasional Ilumynarian sent to check on them remained to watch Jim pace.

"What's taking so long? It isn't supposed to take this long, is it?" he asked, not for the first time, and Uhura answered with the same surprising patience she'd shown all day.

"I can't be completely sure, Jim. The information that they shared with us was pretty minimal, remember? And, again, the situation isn't exactly—"

"If something went wrong, they'd tell us, right?" Her level stare informed him that she didn't appreciate being interrupted. "Sorry, sorry. But, seriously, if he really did get poisoned or some shit, we'd know by now. Wouldn't we?" She just sighed, propping her chin against her palm with a smile he couldn't quite interpret, and he paused in his pacing to direct a kick at the wall with a frustrated groan. "Jesus. If he survives, I'm going to _kill_ him! What the hell was he thinking, volunteering for crazy alien ritual shit and disappearing for hours like no one's going to fucking worry, and if we don't hear something soon, so help me I'm going to—"

Spock, who had already observed several such rants on the part of his captain with increasingly perceptible disquiet, surged to his feet and took the two long strides necessary to bring them face-to-face.

"Please forgive this intrusion, Captain," he said—a pointless formality, since he was already placing his fingertips against the meld points on Jim's face.

Startled and intrigued, Jim managed to choke out, "Yeah, sure," even though the Vulcan hadn't exactly been asking for his permission—a fact that he fully intended to file away for future reference. It occurred to him that Spock was guilty of a little hypocrisy himself, disapproving of the Ilumynarians when both versions of him were so liberal with their own abilities. Still, Spock only indulged in the most polite and superficial of melds, and Jim barely felt the contact before the Vulcan pulled away again, his non-expression stony.

"Lieutenant," he intoned, his voice as flat and hard as his face had become, "When the Ilumynarian Mrreena was conversing with the Captain and Dr. McCoy, she utilized a word that the UT was unable to translate."

"_Llmeena_," Uhura confirmed, softly.

"What is the significance of this term?" he demanded, and Jim nodded agreement.

"Yeah, I'd forgotten about that. What was she calling us?"

Uhura met her boyfriend's glare with her own eyes narrowed warningly. "It means exactly what you think it does, so you may as well be gracious about it, Spock." The Vulcan flinched in the same unconscious way that men of all species did with confronted by a female using that particular tone, and Jim hid a grin. Uhura glanced at him, and her voice softened again. "_T'hy'la_."

After a frozen pause, Spock nodded once, stiffly, then turned and strode out of the room. Uhura sighed.

"I've heard that before. It's some kind of Vulcan endearment, isn't it?" Jim asked, wary and curious of his first officer's reaction to the word. Uhura shook her head.

"It's slightly more complicated than that. Most Vulcans don't use terms of endearment—at least, not in the way we think of them. _T'hy'la_ is a title, like spouse or sibling or friend. Actually, it encompasses all of those, and no species who recognizes the relationship throws the term for it around lightly." The look she gave Jim was compassionate and serious. "Basically, Mrreena was acknowledging the depth of your bond with Leonard, and promising on behalf of her people to respect your claim to each other."

He looked at the linguist with blank shock. "But I…we…I don't have any 'claim' to Bones." She just shook her head with sympathetic amusement.

"They're telepathic, Jim. As much as they love ritual, they understand better than most that some things don't have to be official to be true." She sighed again, looking out the door. "Speaking of telepaths, I should probably go after our big baby." Jim laughed, but his thoughts were still whirling. Actually, it was only getting worse, because he recognized the loving exasperation in her tone.

Bones used it on him, all the time. How the hell had he never realized? He shook himself, trying to recover some semblance of captainly equilibrium.

"Yeah, about that. His little temper tantrum isn't going to be a problem, is it?" She shook her head again, her expression hardening.

"No. I'll talk to him."

"All this just because he and Bones don't get along?" He heard the annoyed disappointment in his own tone, and Uhura glanced away.

"He…disapproves of your friendship with Leonard." She shrugged, and he got the impression that she was a little embarrassed on her boyfriend's behalf. "Well. He's wrong about that, anyway." He gave her a searching look.

"Then you don't? Disapprove, that is." She gave him a measuring look of her own in return as she stood.

"Do you know what set him off in the first place?" she asked, and Jim shook his head. "Your little performance there, with the pacing and the fretting and the completely nonsensical threats? Leonard does the _exact same thing_ when he's the one left hoping that you'll come home safely—which you have to admit happens much more frequently."

"Nyota, I have no idea what that's supposed to mean," he said plaintively, and she paused for a moment on her way out the door.

"It means, I don't anymore," she replied, before leaving him alone with his scattered thoughts.

He barely had time to settle into one of the low-backed Ilumynarian armchairs and begin brooding properly before he felt the weight of someone's gaze on him again. He looked up sharply, only to meet tired hazel eyes.

"Bones!" he exclaimed, leaping up and rushing across the room to the inner door where the doctor had propped his rangy frame. "Fucking say something next time! What the hell?"

"Sorry," Bones muttered, his voice a little rough with exhaustion. Jim raked him with a concerned gaze before reaching out to cup his cheek, noting with surprise that every inch of visible skin was completely unmarked. Bones leaned into the touch, his eyes closing briefly, and Jim stroked his thumb gently over the high cheekbone.

"That bad?" he asked, his momentary relief fading quickly. Bones shook his head.

"Nah. Just nice to feel a human touch, after…all that." Jim nodded and began to shift his hands to the other man's arms, but hesitated with a questioning look. Bones shook his head reassuringly.

"Back. They decided that a…non-traditional design would be more appropriate, under the circumstances." Jim nodded his understanding, and pulled his friend gently away from the doorframe. Sliding his grip down Bones' arms to his hands, Jim tugged the doctor over to the largest of the Ilumynarian couches, noting the pained caution that his movements betrayed with unhappiness.

"And what circumstances were those, exactly?" He settled Bones carefully onto the middle of the couch, with his side to the back, so that they sat knee-to-knee.

"Mostly, the fact that my _Llmeena_ strongly disagreed with the idea of them marking my face, or so I'm told," Bones said wryly, trying to hide a wince as he shifted. "Superficial bastard. Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Jim grinned at him. "You're welcome." His amusement faded as he continued to observe the shadows under Bones' eyes and the slight glassiness of his gaze. "I'm guessing you were right about not be able to remove it, then?"

"Not a chance in hell. The only methods that'll have that bitch off entail some pretty extensive skin grafts." Bones made a face. "I think I'd rather just live with it, thanks. Fortunately, I don't have a lot of cause to take my shirt off in public."

Jim ran a hand reassuringly down his arm. "Oh, come off it. It can't be _that_ embarrassing." Bones snorted.

"The hell _you_ say. Mind your damned business, Jim," he replied, his tone rich with an irony that Jim didn't quite understand.

"Hey, no one made you volunteer for this, Bones," he shot back, nettled. "I had it covered—since, _obviously_, you were wrong about the whole poisonous ink thing."

The tense silence that followed that declaration continued long enough for Jim to begin to feel fidgety.

"It was toxic as all hell, Jim. Just not fatally so," Bones finally said, quietly. "After they picked that fear out of both our minds, they had one of their own healers analyze the compound's effects on human physiology. When they realized what it would do to me, they let me take precautions. I'm doped up on antihistamines, anti-inflammatories, and pain killers like you wouldn't believe." He gave Jim another wry smirk. "Then again, it got me a free pass on the post-ritual orgy, so maybe that's all for the best."

Jim choked out a laugh. "Shit. I wondered why you came back alone." He brought his hand back to the doctor's face, growing solemn. "Shit," he repeated, with feeling. "I'm sorry. Thank you." Bones just nodded, his increasingly unfocused eyes sliding closed again. "I guess that means that this isn't the best time to talk about the whole _Llmeena_ thing, huh?"

Bones' eyes snapped back open and he started to jerk away, only to arrest the motion with a soft gasp. Despite going white as a ghost, though, he glared at Jim and batted at his hand when the younger man reached out to steady him.

"I'm _fine_," he growled, and Jim gave him a long, worried look, slightly taken aback.

"We have to talk about it sometime," he warned.

"No, we don't," Bones countered, his lips tightening into a familiar, stubborn line, and Jim sighed before flipping his comm open.

"Uhura, he's back. Are you and Spock ready to head out?" At her affirmative, he switched channels. "Scotty?"

"Aye, sir?"

"Four to beam up." He hauled Bones gently to his feet just as the pale glow of the transporter surrounded them. "Come on, old man. Let's get you home."

The next week was the most awkward of Jim's life, bar none—it even beat out that time when he got caught with his hand under his prom date's twin sister's skirt. Jim tried to avoid Uhura, Bones pretty successfully avoided him, and Spock was avoiding all of them. When they weren't avoiding each other, they were sniping at and about each other, and the rest of the crew tiptoed around the volatile quartet and wondered what the hell was going on.

Jim wasn't entirely certain, himself—and it was starting to piss him off.

Six days after they left Ilumyna, he dropped sullenly into the command chair at the beginning of alpha shift and announced, to no one in particular, "It's like high school, but without the adult supervision."

The statement garnered knowingly sympathetic looks from Chekov, Sulu, Hanlon, McAlister, and Xirecq—a little too knowing for comfort, actually. For their part, Spock and Uhura remained intently focused on their stations, though a distinct frown line was visible between the latter's brows.

Jim watched the following two minutes of silent but increasingly emphatic conversation among the rest of the bridge crew with no little amusement, and he wasn't particularly surprised when Sulu cleared his throat ostentatiously.

"So, Captain," he began, with studied nonchalance. "Dr. McCoy hasn't been up to the bridge much, this week. Is he feeling alright? After the ritual, and all?" There was genuine concern in several of the glances that were turned to Jim in anticipation, and his amusement faded.

"Dr. McCoy has been pretty busy this week. But he assures me that he's fine." Actually, he hadn't—Jim had gone behind his friend's back and asked Geoff M'benga about his boss's status. Which yeah, he felt a little guilty about, but it was sure as hell easier than facing down Bones' defenses. Especially since Jim wasn't really sure what had him so defensive, in the first place.

It took him several moments to realize that the entire bridge had frozen and was regarding him with shock, Spock included.

"What?" he asked, baffled. After another flurry of silent communication, it was Chekov who answered.

"You called him 'Dr. McCoy.' You _newer_ call him that." The teenager was visibly distressed, and a quick glance assured Jim that he wasn't the only one. He groaned mentally, wondering how to reassure the children that, yes, mommy and daddy were fighting, but it wasn't anything they needed to worry about.

"Captain, if I might speak with you in private?" Spock's voice interrupted his frantic conversation with himself, and Jim fought the urge to bang his head against the nearest console.

"If you're just going to complain about our CMO some more, then I've got to go with no thanks, Spock. Because, quite frankly, all three of us have been guilty of a little _illogical_ behavior, recently," Jim snapped. Spock regarded him impassively for a moment before continuing.

"Captain, I believe that your persistent avoidance of the need to formalize your relationship with Dr. McCoy is becoming detrimental to the functioning of this ship." Jim looked at the Vulcan blankly for several seconds, before turning an accusing glare on Uhura.

"Did your boyfriend really just tell me to man up and ask Bones out for the good of the _Enterprise_?" The comm officer managed to maintain an admirably straight face.

"Yes, sir. I believe that he did."

"Your personal efficiency has decreased 17.6 percent since the commencement of your disagreement on the topic," Spock insisted doggedly. "Dr. McCoy's has decreased 15.9 percent in the same interim. There has been a resulting 7.4 percent reduction in shipwide morale. It is only logical to assume that these trends will be reversed upon the satisfactory termination of the circumstances which initiated them," he concluded.

He might as well have been reporting the ship's ambient temperature, for all the composed neutrality of his delivery, but Jim could see the tell-tale tension in his stance—it had bugged the hell out of the Vulcan to deliver that little speech. But he'd clearly decided that it was the right thing to do, so he'd bitten the proverbial bullet and done it, however grudgingly. It gave Jim a _little _more hope for the future of their merry band, at any rate.

He turned to offer an apologetic glance to Uhura, since he sure as hell knew who to thank for his XO's sudden change of heart. She smiled reluctantly at him, though clearly still annoyed behind the amusement.

"_Someone_ had to end the standoff." Her stern expression softened, just a little. "Now, go talk to him, Jim. The two of you just don't work as well, separately." Jim could see nods of agreement proliferating in his peripheral vision, but he was already scanning the crew roster for Bones' schedule.

"Spock, you have the conn," he tossed over his shoulder on his way out the door, indifferent to the satisfied smirks that his hasty exit left in its wake.

The five-minute walk to the CMO's quarters didn't grant him any particular enlightenment, so he just leaned on the door buzzer and hoped like hell for divine intervention. When the door didn't open, he switched to pounding and shouting.

"I _know_ you're in there, Bones!" Which he did. It was the man's day off, and he always slept in on his day off. "So just open the damned door before I'm compelled to make a really embarrassing scene out here!" Thirty seconds later he was fully prepared to make good on the threat, when the door finally slid open and Bones dragged him into the room by his shirtfront.

"What the hell is your problem, Jim?" he hissed, as soon as the door had swished closed behind them.

"At the moment? You, actually." Jim observed the disheveled man, clad only in cut-off sweatpants and a ribbed white tank, and added, "You look fantastic, though."

God help Jim, did he ever. The shadows under those clear hazel eyes had faded, and Bones' motions had regained their careless grace, accentuated by the lean muscularity that his sleepwear revealed. The sleep-mussed hair and stubbled jaw loaned a rakish edge to features that Jim had secretly always considered just a little too pretty. The overall effect was thoroughly devastating, and more than slightly unfair, Jim thought.

"You don't say," Bones ground out, stepping back and crossing his arms defensively.

"Oh, I've got _lots_ to say," Jim assured him, following right back into his personal space. "Let's start with the fact that I'm in love with you. In fact, I've been in love with you so long and so completely that I didn't even realize that was what it was until the Ilumynarians pointed it out. And I'm pretty much positive that you feel exactly the same way, so what the hell gives? What are you so damned afraid of, Bones?"

"At the moment? You, actually," the doctor said mockingly, before raking a hand through his hair with a shaky sigh. "Do you know what your problem is, Jim? It's that you have no self-preservational instincts whatsoever."

Jim blinked at him. "Okay. Leaving aside for the moment the fact that you know that's total bullshit, I'm really not seeing the relevance." Bones swung sharply away from Jim, leaving the other man to address his back—but not before Jim saw the pained resignation in his eyes.

"You've never been afraid of _anything_, have you? I'm starting to wonder if you even know what it feels like. So how the fuck do you expect me to answer that question in a way you can understand?"

Jim realized perfectly well what Bones was trying to tell him, but his attention had been arrested by the sight of his friend's back. The worn cotton of his shirt revealed the full extent of the Ilumynarian tattoo, a dark shadow that stretched from his shoulder blades all the way to the waistline of his shorts, and the harsh, needy apprehension that he'd felt during those hours on Ilumyna returned to Jim with a sickening clarity.

"I was afraid, back on Ilumyna. During the ritual. Waiting, wondering if you were alright. Hating that there wasn't a single fucking thing I could do if you weren't," he admitted, balling his hands into fists to keep them at his sides. The urge to touch, to reassure himself that Bones was right there, perfectly fine, was almost overwhelming.

"Good," Bones replied, flatly. "Maybe next time you're on the other side of things, you'll have a little more consideration for the rest of us." Jim forced a weak laugh.

"You'd do it again, wouldn't you? As much as you hated it, you'd do it again without a second thought."

"Yes," was the prompt response. Jim rolled that around in his mind, then nodded.

"Yeah. See, that pretty much scares the shit out of me. So, how does that fit into your theory?"

Bones sighed again, his shoulders lifting with the motion, shifting the shadow under his tank top. "Jim…"

"I want to see it," Jim interrupted. Bones twisted to glance back at him, startled.

"I'm sorry?"

Jim snorted. "No, you aren't. But it's pretty much my fault that you're wearing that ink, and I want to see it." Bones started to turn around, shaking his head, and Jim caught him by the upper arms to stop the motion.

"Nuh uh. Forget it, Jim." Bones attempted to twist away again, and Jim pulled the other man flush against his chest, laughing softly beside his ear. Bones tipped his head to glare at him from mere inches away, and Jim had to look away from those downturned lips before he did something that might not further his cause. "Yeah, you're hilarious. And since you did more than anyone else, including me, to try to keep 'that ink' off me, your justification is bullshit," Bones informed him, patently unimpressed.

"Very true," Jim agreed. "But I want to see it anyway." He tried to put all the need and concern he felt into the words. He wasn't sure why, but he suddenly _had_ to know exactly what the Ilumynarians had done to Bones, to see it with his own eyes and reassure himself once and for all that it really was okay.

That he hadn't let Bones get hurt by letting him protect him.

He must have been successful, because Bones tensed in his arms—a strange, shivery stillness that left Jim aching to comfort him—before relaxing against him.

"Goddamn it, Jim. Why can't I stay mad at you?" he muttered, mostly to himself, Jim thought. He answered anyway.

"I've been trying to explain that to you for about ten minutes, now. Weren't you listening?" Bones gave him a disbelieving look, so he clarified the statement. "We're hopelessly in love. It's a pain in the ass, but there you go."

"No, _you're_ a pain in the ass," Bones corrected him, but a wry smile was tugging at his lips. Jim looked at him expectantly, and he rolled his eyes. "Ah, hell. _Fine_. But so help me god, if you tell _anyone_, I will make you suffer in ways that no sentient species has yet imagined."

"Bones, it can't possibly be that bad," Jim objected, loosening his hold to let his hands rest lightly on the other man's hips. Bones gave him a dark look over his shoulder, but proceeded to pull his shirt over his head.

For several moments, all Jim could do was stare at the revealed design—then step back to arms' length, his hands still on Bones' hips, and stare some more. The pattern was dizzyingly intricate, gorgeously executed, and completely unmistakable. Jim felt the grin stretching his face as he met annoyed hazel eyes.

"They gave you wings," he said, amused and delighted. Bones huffed an exasperated sigh and looked away.

"Honorary Ilumynarian, remember?" he replied, gruffly, but Jim could see the pink staining his cheeks.

"Yeah, but…seriously, Bones. Wings? Did you explain what that means, in human mythology?" The pink began to spread to his throat and ears, and Jim's grin got even wider.

"I'm pretty sure the thought crossed my mind, at some point," he admitted, with so much reluctance that Jim had to laugh out loud.

"That is so. Fucking. Priceless," he managed to gasp out—then sobered in a hurry as an irritated Bones tried to wriggle out of his grasp again. The brief tussle ended with them both in a tangle on Bones' couch, and he twined his fingers into the doctor's dark hair, holding his head still so that he could speak quietly beside his ear. "Shush, Bones. No sarcasm, here. It suits you." He loosened his grip to stroke lightly down the nape of Bones' neck. "Hell, if anyone on this crew has earned their wings, it's you, _Llmeena_."

"We _aren't_," Bones argued, and Jim remembered making the same objection to Uhura. How had she answered?

"'Some things don't have to be official to be true,'" he murmured.

Bones sighed and pulled away again, but without violence, resting his forearms against his knees. The position made a graceful arch of his back, and Jim couldn't resist the urge to reach out and trace the elegant upsweep of one tattooed wing along his scapula. The moment his fingertip brushed the dark lines, however, he found himself awash in unfamiliar emotions.

Respect, for a man who had the balls to decide what he wanted and just go for it, and the hell with the consequences. A deeply self-mocking jealousy, because he'd never been that man, and never would be. Pained resignation, because he knew perfectly well that someone like him could never hold the attention of someone like that for a lifetime. And a desire-drenched affection that said only a lifetime could even begin to be long enough.

The onslaught stopped, and Jim realized that he'd pulled away, startled. Bones' eyes were wider than he'd ever seen them, and his voice was rough when he finally spoke.

"The Ilumynarians' telepathy isn't a genetic trait. They induce it with the ritual tattoos," he observed, flatly. "Spock and the xeno team are going to have a fucking field day."

"Now who's acting like it's the end of the universe?" Jim commented. The glare he got in response was so bleakly angry that he reached out to stroke Bones' back almost automatically, desperate to know why the other man felt that way, and what he could do to fix it—immediately or sooner. Bones saw him reaching, let him, and Jim figured that was permission enough.

The rush of emotion was less startling, this time, but no less heartbreaking. Shame, because he was pretty sure that Jim had seen a few things that he wasn't particularly proud of thinking. Fury, that he'd been altered so drastically without his knowledge or explicit permission. Cautious hope that the powerful feelings he'd sensed in Jim might be enough to keep him from running as fast as he could in the other direction, despite this newest bit of insanity. And a sheer, growing pleasure in the warmth of Jim's hand as it stroked its soothing path along his spine.

The last caught Jim's particular attention—he could actually feel the phantom sensation against his own back, shivery and almost painfully sweet with Bones' wistfulness.

"That's the answer," he realized. Bones met his eyes warily, having caught just enough of his thought process to mistrust it. He smiled reassuringly at his _Llmeena_, his _T'hy'la_, reaching up to trace that tempting lower lip with his thumb. "Don't look at me like that. This isn't a bad thing, Bones—and I'm going to prove it to you." With that, he surrendered to the impulse he'd been denying ever since Bones had dragged him into his room, and pressed their mouths together.

The kiss didn't start out particularly chaste, and it sure as hell didn't stay that way. And soon, just as Jim had hoped, nothing passed between the two of them but need and pleasure when he stroked his hands over Bones' back—and it was impossible to feel where his pleasure ended, and Bones' began. Impossible to doubt the strength of the desire, the _love_, that fueled their need.

And only later—an impressive amount of time later, Jim noted with satisfaction—after they'd retrieved Bones' shirt to keep from overdosing on each other and collapsed together in an exhausted tangle on his bed…only _then_ did Jim allow himself the slightly guilty thought that he owed the Ilumynarians the quadrant's most sincere thank-you note.

He had a sneaking suspicion that, back on Procepis Six, Mama Mrreena was laughing her brightly feathered ass off.


End file.
